Beautiful
by Mello's Favorite Reject
Summary: Matt feels ugly and suffers from Bulimia. -CONTAINS UNHEALTHY LIFESTYLE AND BULIMIA.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Beautiful

**Summary:** Matt  
feels ugly and suffers from Bulimia. -CONTAINS UNHEALTHY LIFESTYLE AND BULIMIA.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own DN.

**Author's Note: **This fic will have a total of three chapters. None of it is proofread. Mistakes will probably be made.

…

* * *

The redhead was on the floor, head on the toilet seat and arms around the bowl. His eyes were shining with unshed tears and his hair was very much unkempt. He retracted his arms and struggled to his feet, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before glancing at the distasteful mess he'd left behind.

Bland colors of liquid, along with chewed up morsels that once had resided in his stomach. Now gone.

He glared at the disgusting bile, flushing the mess away and wrapping his arms around himself.

He was cold, even with long sleeves. He walked over to the full-length mirror and just stared at the wreckage that was himself. His hair was dull and lifeless, sticking out in all the wrong ways due to an unruly cowlick. His eyes, once vibrant and serene, were now nothing more than orbs of deadened grass, lined by heavy bags from sleepless nights. His skin, once tastefully pale and sprinkled with freckles –now sickly grey and corpse-like.

He continued to stare into the mirror before placing both hands at the hem of his shirt and slowly tugging it up over his head and dropping it to the floor. He scowled at what he saw. He ran his hands along his upper torso and abdomen, grabbing and pinching and pulling at the skin beneath his ribs and experimentally sucking in his stomach.

He hated how utterly fat and disgusting he'd become.

He turned to the side, eyes still on the mirror as he looked at himself from another angle, hoping to find the illusion of someone partially attractive. But no, this was worse. Now he could see the contorted shape of his flabby belly and jello-like thighs, thick calves, his nonexistent biceps, and grotesque… everything. Even his forearms and wrists were wide with girth; and his fingers were short and stubby.

He turned to get a full-frontal view once more before reaching his hands to his face and pinching his cheeks. He prayed that this was all just babyfat and would come off eventually, but… he had to be realistic. He was 17; his babyfat was long gone.

This mess that stood before him, staring at him through the mirror, it was his own fault.

He ignored the chills that ran down his spine, and he no longer felt the burn from vomit racing up his esophagus. He ventured back to the porcelain trash bin and peered inside, where he caught sight of his distorted reflection in the water.

And he didn't have to make himself throw up this time.

Just looking at himself was enough to twist and churn his stomach, forcing up the remaining contents inside him.

When he was done, he flushed again, wiped his mouth, ran a toothbrush over his teeth and a hairbrush through his hair, and changed into his clothes for the day.

Meticulously came on the briefs, boxers came on overtop of them. Then came socks that reached his knees. Large, baggy sweatpants, at least two sizes too large. A t-shirt that swallowed him whole, and finally… an oversized sweatshirt.

After getting dressed in layers, he didn't bother looking in the mirror. He just laid on the floor, crossed his arms over his chest and began a daily workout regime, starting with crunches, then sit-ups, pushups, jumping jacks, and then a quick jog to the basement, where he would take a 2 mile walk on the treadmill, followed by 30 minutes on the Ab Circle, and then finally, he could head back to his living room, grab a room-temperature bottle of water, and just… wait for his energy to build up again.

So tired and exhausted after this workout, he'd just sit there… on the couch, feeling his body try to make nutrition into fat.

He didn't want to be unsightly.

There had once been a time when he was attractive, and he even had a boyfriend –a sexy one at that, but no. That boyfriend had left him the moment he started to gain weight.

The redhead tried to curl in on himself, feeling tired and upset, and just wanting to cry, but his body was too sore for the movement, and he was soaked in sweat. He thought of removing his sweatshirt, but then he'd have that much more of his fatty stomach to look at.

When he calmed down and regained his strength, he go up, reached under a nearby stand and pulled out a box. From that box, he retrieved a set of ankle weights, each weighing 15 lbs. He strapped 'em 'round his ankles and got up, getting used to the feel of wearing them.

Now he could clean his house. Just because he looked like a pig, didn't mean he had to live in a sty. He gathered up his dirty clothes and threw them in the hamper. He grabbed a smoke and lit it up, hoping that it would fill the void of food in his life. Then he organized his shoes and boots, mating them and lining them up along the wall. Next came dishes; he lived alone and ate more diet pills and laxatives than actual food, so the cleanup was quick. He grabbed a washcloth and wiped down the walls and counters. He swept the floors. He found his old goggles and… he threw them away.

A pack and a half of cigarettes later, he deemed his home livable.

But, as he reclaimed a seat, he caught sight of a familiar picture. In the picture stood two teens. A blonde and a redhead. Two best friends who had just started dating back then.

The blonde was and forever would be beautiful, but the redhead –his looks faded so quickly.

"Why couldn't I be beautiful for you?"

…

**/Yeah, I know. I'm on a role for writing Less-than-Happy things./**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Beautiful

**Summary:** Matt  
feels ugly and suffers from Bulimia. -CONTAINS UNHEALTHY LIFESTYLE ANDBULIMIA.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own DN.

**Author's Note:** Wish I had something to say here. But I don't, so... just read, I guess.

…

* * *

The blonde sat on the tacky zebra-striped sofa, arms draped over the back cushions and a sly smirk in place as he leered at his cohorts. He could feel the way the tight leather clung to his body, and he felt sexy and dangerous, like the sweetest kind of poison.

One arm slipped from its support on the couch and dropped so that his hand was in his lap, resting lightly against that bulge that was his telltale weapon of choice. Because, yes, he kept a loaded semi-automatic there. And yes, he was one lethal bitch.

He had to be. Life didn't give him a choice. He propped his feet up on a makeshift coffee table, crossing his legs at his ankles and staring down the bridge of his nose at the whores that flanked to him, running their sickly thin fingers along the outline of his boots, tugging at the laces, and literally licking dirt from the leather.

Truthfully, he was disgusted by them and their sultry glances. He despised seeing their unbuttoned blouses and lacey bras and fake tits. Because, yes, that brunette right there _definitely_ had some work done.

He watched them fawn all over him before growing bored and kicking one in the face, feeling a spark of amusement as they all backed off.

He dropped his head back to look at the ceiling. His eyes were wide open, but he was dreaming. That's why he could shoot men in the heads and pregnant women in the stomachs. Because this wasn't real to him.

No.

To this blonde, every waking moment without his precious redhead in his arms was a lie. Fake. A dream. A nightmare.

He wanted his old reality back. He wanted to see that bright red hair, those orange lenses, and that dorky smile. He missed that ridiculous striped shirt and awkward stature.

He forced a scowl and got up, excusing himself abruptly before heading to his room. He shut and locked himself in before digging through his shit and finding an old faded photograph… of two teens. A blonde and a redhead. The picture was taken back when things were simpler, and he found himself smiling at the memory.

That picture was taken on the last day they'd seen each other. He remembered it so well.

"_Mello, that chocolate's gonna make you fat!"_

"_No it won't! I'm too sexy to get fat, Matt. You're gonna get fat, 'cause all ya do is sit on your ass and play games!"_

"…_Nuh uh." Pause. "So, you think I'm fat?"_

"_Nah, now shut up and let's go get something to eat."_

"…_Sure."_

_They went to grab lunch. Mello ate grease-soaked grouping of fast food followed by a scoop of chocolate ice cream, and Matt didn't eat at all, claiming himself to not be feeling well._

_Later that evening, L had died, and Mello disappeared. And Matt would wake up the following morning alone._

The blonde sighed happily as he thought back to their silly conversations; he wished he hadn't left so soon. Perhaps he could make things right again.

With that in mind, he hid the picture away and his mind was decided.

He'd track down that scrawny ass redhead and pay him a visit.

…

* * *

**/One more chappie. Review./**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Beautiful

**Summary:** Matt feels ugly and suffers from Bulimia. -CONTAINS UNHEALTHY LIFESTYLE AND BULIMIA.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own DN.

**Author's Note:** Last chappie. Read on.

…

* * *

It had been hell and a half, but the blonde managed to track down the general location of his former redheaded friend. Then came the easy part, which was coming up with an excuse to leave his cohorts to go on a cross-country trip.

"_My grandma died. I've gotta go to LA for her funeral." And like suckers, they bought it. Mello was free to go; he'd been granted a week to grieve._

He showed up at the address he'd found and knocked. When no one answered, he tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. He slipped inside and smiled at what he found.

That same dorky redhead, wearing baggy clothes, a set of headphones, and he was dancing around the living room, cleaning, running the vacuum, and singing off key. The whole scene made Mello smile.

"_Hey pretty boy, wha'cha pullin' on me? Ya think you've got it all wrapped up…"_ The redhead pushed and pulled the sweeper, bending down to get better leverage and suck up the dust bunnies beneath the coffee table. "_Lyin' in the shade of a sycamore tree; I'm sorry but it just ain't enough_." He finished off the carpet, killed the power on the vacuum, and started to rearrange a few decorative ornaments. "_If ya wanna steal a kiss, then ya gotta steal a piece of my…-"_ he never finished the song; his words got caught in his throat as he turned 'round and caught sight of the intrusive blonde. His eyes widened in surprise and he clumsily dropped the ornament.

"Nice singing voice. Someone sounds happy," Mello said, lessening the distance between himself and the redhead. "It's been a while." He was making small talk, starting with a simple greeting, trying to seem less invasive than he essentially was.

But all the redhead could really focus on was that body, those subtle curves and taut muscle; the leather and partially exposed flesh. The overall appearance was so seductive and alluring. It took a considerably amount of willpower not to drool right then and there.

"Matt, are you listening to me?"

The redhead nodded soundlessly, gesturing to the couch and for the blonde to take a seat. He gave a nervous grin as Mello complied; then he stumbled lamely into the kitchen to grab a glass of unsweetened tea. He returned quickly –too quickly, in fact, nearly tripping over his own two feet and spilling the over-filled drink on himself and the blonde upon arrival. His cheeks flushed and his mouth frothed with apologies.

"Calm down, Matt. Clothing is replaceable. Your friendship is not. Sit with me." He grabbed the redhead by the hand and pulled him into his own lap. He wrapped his arms around Matt and his brows furrowed thoughtfully. "You're a bit lighter than I remember," he said with a slightly off tone.

Matt's body went rigid with nervousness, being uncomfortable to be so close to someone so attractive.

"You eating okay?" Mello asked.

Matt nodded hesitantly. "Of course. Two or three meals a day." And it wasn't a lie, though he wasn't about to tell the blonde that he often substituted water or vitamins in place of actual food.

"But Matt, you're so… thin," Mello said with uncertainty, wrapping both arms around the redhead and slipping on hand up under his shirt, gliding his fingers along thin flesh over hard bone. "When did you start…-" He started to question, but he was answered before he could finish, for which, he was admittedly grateful. (He wasn't quite sure how to finish his inquiry anyways.)

"When you left me. That's when I started." He slipped off the blondes lap and sat beside him; he pulled his knees to his chest and reached to his ankles, unstrapping and removing the weights. "You called me fat. And then you left."

"Matt, you were never fat. You were always so…"

Beautiful.

"Mello, I was fat, and I still am."

"No. I liked how you looked; I left because… I was stupid. I was an emotional wreck when L died."

"Wait, L died?" Matt suddenly forgot about his weight issues; his mind was focused on the news he'd just heard.

"They never told you?"

"Fuck no, nobody told me shit. All I knew, was that you left, and I left as soon as I found out."

"So… you thought I left… because of your weight?"

The redhead didn't answer, but the silence held all the explanation the blonde needed.

So much time seemed to pass, during which they just sat there, quietly, each lost in their own thoughts. Then…

Mello sat up, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Matt… do you trust me?"

"…Yeah."

"Then… can I see you? _All_ of you?"

Matt closed his eyes tightly, breath becoming irregular. His fingers curled tight and he felt so nervous and frightened at the very idea of anyone seeing him –especially Mello. He tried to calm himself as he stuttered out a rather important question. "If… If I'm ugly, are you gonna leave me?"

Mello didn't answer with words. Instead, he gently placed a hand to Matt's cheek and gave a soft caress; then he moved in and lightly brushed his own lips agains the redhead's. He pulled back and smiled. "You're not ugly," he said finally. "You never were, and you never will be."

Matt nodded and stood up; he moved directly in front of the blonde so as to give him a better view. Then, he turned away, his back facing Mello, as he slipped his socks off one at a time and dropped them to the floor. Next came the sweatshirt. Then the baggy t-shirt, leaving him topless.

Mello watched his meticulous movements, an expression of awe gracing his features. "Matt…" he growled lustfully, eyes trained on that too-thin body and sickly pale skin.

Matt tried to keep calm, though he was still frightened that his appearance would deter the other. He slipped the sweatpants off, and then the boxers, leaving him in naught but a pair of briefs. Cautiously, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned to face the blonde. "This is it. This is me," he said, shoulders drooping as he tried to curl in on himself to appear smaller.

"And… you're beautiful," Mello said, getting up and approaching Matt, taking him in his arms and pressing their lips together. "I never cared about your weight. But… I must say that this frailty… it suits you. It makes me feel the need to protect you. It… makes me… want you."

And Matt smiled. Because, for once, he truly did feel… Beautiful.

_**End**_

…

* * *

**/Not a good message to send out. Anorexia and/or Bulimia are serious eating disorders. I will not tell you how to live your life, but I am not suggesting that I support this lifestyle. That said, review. AND, DO NOT FLAME ME FOR THE MESSAGE OF THIS FIC BEING RATHER POOR. IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, YOU DAMN WELL SHOULD NOT HAVE READ IT. -sorry for being rude./**


	4. ATTENTION

**ATTENTION PLEASE READ!**

I just recieved a review from a Guest. It said:

_fyan:i really liked the fanfic, and was going to write a great review about it  
but at the end of the third chapter when you call an eating disorder a  
'lifestyle'...um, it's a DISORDER, a DISEASE! People die from this, people  
can't control it. You don't choose an eating disorder, what kind you want, how  
you want it to go._

It's not a lifestyle choice.

I would really like to apologize to anyone I may have offended with this fic and/or my A/N(s). I meant nothing bad by any of it. But, I would like to defend myself for what I have said. I know it is a DISORDER, but I refuse to acknowledge it as a DISEASE. To me, the term DISEASE is offensive and crude and often used in all the wrong ways to describe the wrong things.

Not once did I say that Bulimia is a choice. Not once did I say that people could choose it. But they CAN choose whether or not to seek or accept help. Even if such a thing is difficult.

I am well aware of how dangerous eating disorders are, and I would appreciate not having my head figuratively bitten off for writing this fic. As such a Guest has said, it is a good fic; he/she liked reading it, so... Just take it for its good points and try not to get mad at me for it.

And FYI, any manner of living that is routine and consistent with a way of life is what I refer to as a LIFESTYLE; and, as I said earlier, I meant no harm. (By LIFESTYLE, I was referring to the fact that: THAT IS HOW MATT HAS BEEN LIVING FOR A PROLONGED PERIOD OF TIME. -I use the term loosely, and if it bothered you, I apologize.)

Also, as I have said, I DO NOT SUPPORT BULIMIA, so I am NOT encouraging it. BUT, I am also NOT going to preach about how it can affect you. If you or a friend is Bulimic, chances are you already know a good bit about the consequences, and it is not my place to tell you right from wrong. It's your life, live it while you can.

...

And another thing. Though this concerns very few of you, I assume. If you ever have a problem with my fics, please PM me or at least leave a SIGNED review so that we can properly discuss it. DO NOT PICK AT ME AND LEAVE ME WITH NO WAY TO EXPLAIN MYSELF. I am a friendly person who is NOT judgemental, and though I often write on controversial subjects, my aim is to relieve stress from myself while entertaining anyone willing to read. That is all. Please keep that in mind.

Now, unless there are further issues to discuss, I'm done here. If you flame me, flame me for a GOOD reason. If my choice of words is poor, let me know and I will apologize, but... don't pick at me. If you pick at me for the wrong reasons, I'm just going to get pissed off. And writing is one of the few ways I cool down when I'm stressed. And, honestly, I don't want to be pissed off while doing something I enjoy.

...

Oh, and I think it is pretty low of someone to say: "I was gonna leave a nice review, but your point of view and/or choice of words makes me mad, so I won't." Isn't that kinda like saying: "I dont' agree with you. Fuck you."?

Finally, I take my leave from this long ass A/N.


End file.
